The morning began, like every morning for the past ten years, with a sacred ritual: my hand outstretched, the tactile search for my phone, my half-open eye scanning the Wi-Fi icon. Green and vibrant, a sign of life. But today, the ritual failed. The icon was a gray ghost, a specter of a lost connection. A shiver of ancient terror ran through me. The end of the world? A solar blackout? No, worse: the Wi-Fi had crashed. First came denial. I rebooted the router, the phone, my cat (just in case). Nothing. Then, anger. How was this possible? Was the universe conspiring against my morning coffee with TikTok? I tried opening X on mobile data, but the 3G barrier felt like a prehistoric stone wall. That's when existence, that old, forgotten friend, decided to make its entrance. I heard a bird chirping. "Since when have there been birds here?" I thought, confused. I looked out the window. There were trees. And a sky. A sky! The smell of real coffee, sans notifications, was intoxicating. My wife, sitting at the kitchen table, wasn't mesmerized by a screen, but... reading a book? And she asked, "Did you sleep well, love?" I looked at her, as if she were a mythological creature. "What?" I stammered. I realized I hadn't checked any WhatsApp messages, I hadn't seen any breaking news, I hadn't filtered my breakfast for Instagram. The real world, noisy and textured, opened up before me. ""So what now?" my wife asked, closing the book with a soft sigh. I shrugged, with a mixture of horror and astonishment. "I guess... we'll have to talk. Or do things. People things. Things from before Wi-Fi." A bird chirped again. Existence, in its analog splendor, felt strangely uneasy. And surprisingly loud. I definitely needed stronger coffee for this. And I hoped, secretly, that the Wi-Fi would come back on soon. Just in case.